I was young. I was old. Now I'm 27.

2008- me with my three little sisters

A lot of people look at me and think I’m still young, and thus I have no understanding of what it’s like to be old.

I was young four years ago when I walked the aisle at my university in a blue gown and funny cap. The date was my 23^rd birthday, and I was elated as I shook the president’s hand and received my bachelor’s degree in accountancy.

I was still young two weeks later as I celebrated Christmas at home with my family, and also the day after Christmas when I arrived in St. Louis, Missouri for Urbana ’09 (a college missions conference with around 20,000 in attendance).

On the day after New Year’s I was still young when a friend, my younger sister and I set off for a week in Oklahoma to volunteer at the Voice of the Martyr’s headquarters. You have to be young to make that 16-hour drive in one day like we did.

Then there was a week after our return to Michigan from Oklahoma. I was young and unsure what to pursue next in life with the holiday season past and only “No thank you” messages received from all my job interviews.

It was my brother’s 18^th birthday celebration, and I was young that morning at the breakfast table. My siblings and I had been watching Mary-Kate and Ashley sing “Brother for Sale” via youtube.

That’s the day I aged 60 years.

It was actually on this day—18 January. Four years ago.

the wrecked van

At the end of that day, I was lying in a hospital bed being poked and prodded and tested and diagnosed and taken by ambulance from one hospital to another.

The days blurred together. It was like being in continual jet lag. One time, I realized it was 3am when my nurse came to make a deal with me to turn out the light so my roommate could sleep.

I wasn’t the only one who was old those days. Mom was about a hundred years old the first two days after the accident, but as each day passed she lost age—ten years at a time. Betsy’s 20-year-old body was so battered she was in ICU five days. And even after surgery and hospital discharge Aaron moved like he was in his nineties.

I cried that Friday when they rolled my stretcher out of the hospital into yet another ambulance and carted me to a nearby nursing rehab hospital. I could hardly answer the social worker when she came in beside my bed to ask a few routine questions, one of which was, “How many days of the past year have you spent in bed clothes?” and another, “Have you trimmed your toenails in the past 60 days?” I wanted to scream and run and hide in the hall closet, but I couldn’t. I couldn’t move. I couldn’t hide my tears, couldn’t escape from that room, that bed, that place. I couldn’t be young.

I felt like an 83-year-old invalid with a mere 23 years of life experience. (And, if 83 doesn't seem old to you, just imagine being 97 and 4 months and 16 days—maybe that will sound old to you!)

In the five weeks following that day, I was the youngest patient in the facility by about 40 years. Despite all my nurses and doctors assuring me “You’re young; you’ll heal quickly,” I felt ancient.

I felt old when I stared out the window day after day (you know I never breathed a single breath of fresh air for about 30 days). I felt old when the nurses woke me up at midnight so I could take my pills, and old when my body kept falling apart because it couldn't move, requiring more tests and medicines and pokes.

But sometimes I felt young. I felt young when Amy braided my hair in two French braids and stuck flowers in it, and young when my 4-year-old friend Lydia brought me a giant lollipop, and young when my roomie’s hearing aid went off almost non-stop for 3 days, and young when my occupational therapist would come in just to visit. Her boyfriend had graduated with me the month before.

Then one day in late February my nurses and doctors agreed I could go home. I felt like I was only 80 and 6 months that day as my brother rolled my wheelchair out of the hospital and I carefully wobbled into the vehicle using a walker, one leg, and three family members.

the last day in the hospital-- waiting to go home

going home :)

Those were long days. Days of my hospital bed in the living room, of snow outside, of in-home therapy, and then water therapy at the community center pool. Michigan gray days. Old days. Betsy and Aaron and I were the 3 Musketeer invalids. We took our pills and our naps and ate our snacks like good little patients—me in my reclining wheelchair, Betsy in my hospital bed, and Aaron in a reclining chair, all next to each other in our parents’ living room. When Amy took us on outings, it was like she had three toddlers to get ready.

bouncy Betsy sans the bounce

major outing... to the end of the driveway to collect the mail...

But day by day those days passed, and in a few months I felt like I was only in my 50’s.

Summer came and I worked long days at the blueberry farm. September came and Betsy and I walked the 5 mile Mackinac Bridge in celebration of God’s healing on our bodies that year. October rolled around, and I could lie on my right side for limited time without pain.

Exactly one year later I began my first day at my office job in Saginaw. I was young again. No one in that world knew how old I had been a few months previously. They didn't have to know. I didn't want to talk about it, because people don’t understand. How could I share something so real in my life only to receive a passing expressive remark in response?

But I’ll never forget the time when I was old. I know what it’s like to rely on someone else to bathe and clothe me. I know what it’s like to have to ask someone to bring anything I want—even just a tissue. I haven’t forgotten the feeling of being trapped inside for Michigan winter, unable to take a walk because of the cold and ice, unable to enjoy even a bit of sunshine. And ever close to my heart is the memory of being unable to travel. I remember my doctor hesitantly clearing me for a five hour road trip months after the accident. I remember crying and wondering deep inside if I’d ever be able to take an international flight across the ocean again.

I’m forever grateful to my loving heavenly Father for gently leading me through those days of my life four years ago. It’s only because of His mighty healing I could cross the ocean—not once, but five times since then—to be part of His work. It’s a privilege I don’t take lightly.

Nahumba Christmas #2
once again across the ocean

PS- I’ve never had an inkling of desire to go back to the “good ol’ days” of my life. 

No, for me, pressing ahead is the only option ever in consideration.